I was still riding high and feeling good since I saw President Donald Trump in Washington, Michigan in April. Three months had already passed and the day had arrived for our trip to the West Coast. They said “Californy is the place you ought to be” so they loaded up the plane and we flew to Beverly. Hills, that is, swimmin’ pools, movie stars; and hopefully a handful of Presidential sites. Our Delta flight from Detroit Metro Airport to San Francisco was a smoother ride than when I flew from China to the U.S. in a cargo plane full of rubber dog crap. I’m lucky as my photographer never puts me in the checked baggage where I’d have to ride in the plane’s cargo hold. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t even place my camera bag in the overhead storage; instead, I ride either on his lap or by his feet. Once we landed, Tom had a huge surprise for his wife as he had switched out their reserved mid-sized rental car for a Ford Mustang convertible. For years Vicki had dreamt of driving a convertible down the Pacific Coast Highway with the top down. Surprisingly, my tight-wad camera guy pulled out his wallet and paid for the upgrade – killing a handful of ancient moths in the process.
Our 18-day California trip was divided into three sections that were filled with regular attractions, Presidential sites, filming locations of movies, a baseball game, a concert, and a NASCAR party. The first part of the trip was in the San Francisco area; a side-trip to Sacramento was also scheduled. The middle section was set aside for the drive south along the Pacific Coast Highway to see the majestic scenery where the California Coast meets the Pacific Ocean. And the final segment of our journey was slated for Southern California where we had planned on staying with old friends and meeting some new ones.
At 11:40am on Wednesday July 25, 2018, I got my first taste of riding in a Mustang convertible with the top down; although the 65-degree weather was cooler than what we had expected. As a matter of fact, it was a lot warmer back in Michigan. My photographer had made up his mind that since we had a convertible, we would cruise with the top down, which made the 20-minute ride to our first site a bit chilly. Tom wanted to ‘make my day’ and visit a movie site from one of his favorite films ‘Dirty Harry’; at high noon we arrived at the entrance to Mount Davidson Park.
My photographer quickly found that nothing stretches out the legs better, after a five-hour plane ride, than walking up a dirt path to the top of a 928-foot tall hill. As he huffed and puffed his way up the incline, I heard Tom say to himself under his breath: “Come on, you can do this, right?” At that moment I thought to myself: “You’ve got to ask yourself one question – do you feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?”
When we finally made it to the summit of Mount Davidson, the terrain had leveled out as we approached the 103-foot tall cement cross that was featured in a scene of the 1971 action-thriller ‘Dirty Harry’. In the film, Clint Eastwood’s character, San Francisco Police Inspector Harry Callahan, was instructed by a psychopathic killer named ‘Scorpio’ to engage in a ransom run around the city. The final stop of the run was at that large cross on top of Mount Davidson where their money exchange and subsequent fight took place. During our twenty-minute stay, we could see that some of the patchy fog appeared to be diminishing, but at times the top portion of the giant crucifix was difficult to see. I had to laugh to myself when I saw my photographer recreate the scene in the movie where Scorpio instructed Callahan to put his nose against the cement cross. As Tom stood there with his nose against the rough concrete surface, I waited for Vicki to finish the scene by clobbering him over the head with the camera; but she didn’t. For me, there was a very slight Presidential connection with that cross. It turned out that on March 24, 1934, Franklin D. Roosevelt used the telegraph to illuminate the huge cross for the first time. Had FDR switched-on the lights from the top of the mountain instead of from the White House, I would have posed for a photo with the crucifix.
Gravity helped my photographer and his wife as they retuned to the Mustang that was parked near the entrance to Mount Davidson Park. Due to the chill in the air, both had decided to leave the car’s top up for the one-mile journey to the next stop – a nearby set of hills called Twin Peaks. The pair of hills, at 925-feet in elevation, are second-only to Mount Davidson in height in San Francisco. The biggest difference that we saw, once we arrived at the top of the north peak, was there weren’t any trees. We had an amazing view of downtown San Francisco and the bay from up there. I had to laugh when we heard what the Spanish conquistadors had called the area when they arrived in the early 1700s: “Los Pechos de la Chola” – when translated it meant “Breasts of the Indian Maiden”. It made sense, since the north peak (Eureka) and south peak (Noe) were very close to each other in both distance and elevation; making them look like gigantic boobs – the “real” San Francisco treat! As beautiful of a view as there was from Twin Peaks, our stay lasted less than fifteen minutes as the strong wind put a nip in the air. Although my photographer and his wife had worn a wind breaker and sweatshirt, they were surprised by the cold temperature in July .
It was 1:30pm and my two travel companions were hungry for lunch; which was no surprise as it was 4:30pm Eastern Time and they hadn’t eaten anything since we left home. Since he was a huge fan of the movie ‘American Graffiti’, Tom directed us to a diner called Mel’s Drive-In. I expected to see girls on roller skates delivering meals to people in their cars as Wolfman Jack played ‘Rock Around the Clock’ over the radio waves, but that wasn’t the case. As a matter of fact, the Mel’s we were at wasn’t even a drive-in; we had to go inside for our meal. Unfortunately, we discovered the original Mel’s that was used in the film was demolished in 1976.
After my photographer and his wife had been filled with burgers, fries, and chocolate malts from the 1962 setting at Mel’s, it was time to take a walk on the wild side with a journey into the 1967 “Summer of Love”. That’s right, we headed for the famous area in San Francisco known as the Haight-Ashbury District, which was the birthplace of the hippie counterculture in the mid-to-late-‘60s. While I despise drugs and the drug use that was widespread in the hippie heyday, I’m an advocate for bands such as Jefferson Airplane and Janis Joplin’s Big Brother and the Holding Company. When it came to the Grateful Dead, however, I’m always grateful when I visit a dead President, but I never cared for the Dead’s music; except perhaps when my photographer played ‘A Touch of Grey’ on his phone.
Vicki drove the Mustang around the Haight-Ashbury District in search of a parking place that was close to the intersection of the two famous streets, but that search proved to be futile at first. But roughly one half-mile from there, at the northeast corner of Golden Gate Park, we stumbled upon a three-story mansion once owned by the band Jefferson Airplane. When members of the band bought the Colonial Revival-style house in 1968, they not only used it as a place to live, but it became their rehearsal hall as well. After my photographer snapped a few images of the mansion from across Fulton Street, I was carried onto the porch where a few more photos were taken. If I listened carefully and let my imagination run loose, it was almost as though I could hear the song ‘Somebody to Love’ coming from behind the large glass and wooden front door. I’ve always been a fan of the Jefferson Airplane, but that was mainly because we shared the common name.
Minutes after leaving the “Airplane House”, we got lucky and found a parking place along Haight Street; one block from Ashbury. At first glance, it appeared that we had been transported back to 1967. Some of the buildings were painted in psychedelic colors, there were peace signs on display, and “free love” seemed to be in the air. The main attraction for us was the Grateful Dead house that was located about a block down Ashbury Street. Band members lived in the now-famous Victorian home, which was painted beige with a touch of grey, from 1965 to ’68. The place had gained notoriety for its parties, music, and drugs during the hippie era; including a drug bust in 1967 where a couple members of the ‘Dead’ were arrested. Even though my photographer had never been a “Dead Head”, he posed for a few photos in front of the historic home. Tom also wore a Beatles tee-shirt, which was done on purpose as he had planned to visit the Haight-Ashbury area on that first day of the trip.
We returned to the epicenter of the late 60s hippie movement, which was the intersection of Haight and Ashbury Streets. As I stood there, it was easy to picture the “long-haired freaky people” who searched for inner peace and tranquility throughout their world. While my photographer, his wife, and I would never support the hippie movement with their use of drugs and hallucinogens, the concept of world peace and love is something all of us should strive for. It appears the bands of San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury District were more focused on partying, getting high, and protesting the establishment; and at times, not bathing. But the 60s and 70s did have one rock and roll messiah that believed in finding peace and love; and it wasn’t Janis Joplin, Grace Slick, or Jerry Garcia. It was John Lennon; a visionary who simply wanted to give peace a chance.
After a quick stop at Rasputin Records on Haight Street where my photographer struck out in his never-ending quest for KISS albums, we boarded the Mustang and headed for our VRBO rental apartment. The ten-mile trip to our home-away-from-home took us over the Golden Gate Bridge; I was excited as I got my first look at the historic red suspension bridge. But when the Golden Gate came into view, we saw only a portion of it – the lower portion. Fog had covered the tops of the two tall towers, but the three of us weren’t concerned as we still had four other days to view and photograph the scenic bridge.
It was nearly 4:20pm when we arrived at our apartment located near Mill Valley. As the clock hit that particular time, I thought to myself: “The clock at the corner of Haight and Ashbury is now correct – at least for one minute.” Our host, Charles Ballinger, met us at the door and he gave the three of us a tour of our new digs. The place was immaculate and very reasonably priced for being less than six miles from the Golden Gate Bridge. We had all the comforts of home; with the exception of air conditioning. Charles said that we wouldn’t need any A/C as the interior fans would suffice to move the air. My photographer was impressed as the owner had a bowl of freshly-picked plums on the dining room table; a bowl that didn’t stay full for very long.
After my photographer and his wife had dinner at a local In-N-Out Burger, they rested for the remainder of the evening as their bodies still hadn’t adapted to the time change. I was placed on a table that looked out towards Ballinger’s backyard – a yard that was filled with amazing flowers, bushes, trees, and a fountain. As I stood there throughout the evening and into the night, my only thought was centered on a rock; or should I say, ‘The Rock”? That’s right, the next morning the three of us were headed to prison – Alcatraz Prison that is!
